Madu II
This morning
I found her sleeping
On my husband's bed.
My husband, of course,
Had gone to work
And the sun was falling
On her face. She pulled
The curtains I bought
For Hari Raya closer
With that hand that
Could not be softer
Than my own. The room
Grew dark orange.
I realised I was peeping
Into my own bedroom.
On Hari Raya
After kissing
My husband's hand
I had to kneel
And kiss hers too
With the rings
That she had bought
- the diamonds -
For cutting my lips.
And when I asked
For forgiveness
She looked at him
As if to say
'If I do not
Forgive this woman
You will not
Forgive me the way I
Have never forgiven you'.
– Alfian Sa'at
Anak Bulan Di Kampung Wa' Hassan
Everybody heard that pause
in the middle of the azan
when the imam tried
to recover his voice.
It was easy to imagine
cocks crooning mournful,
cats becoming more affectionate,
trees throwing their shadows
at earlier hours,
lost birds, a new map in the sky -
as if everything knew.
One last look
as rooms reclaimed their echoes:
What is there
to look forward to
but nostalgia?
On the last evening in the last kampung
a mother rocked her baby
in the embryo of its buaian
singing it lullabies over and over
for fear the child would forget.
The well has already forgotten.
Its stupefied mouth gapes wide,
as if in the middle of a sentence,
speechless with the memory of a drowned moon.
– Alfian Sa'at (One Fierce Hour)
